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So here we are, and on my sweep through the area, my eyes land on another thing that I love and had forgotten about.
Flowers.
Gardenias, to be exact. Tons of them, mixed in with daisies and roses and hemlock.
“Aha.” I perk up because I like flowers. “Like flowers. Look! And the fact that we get to work on them this weekend.”
Every Saturday, as a part of reformation and teamwork, all girls do a little bit of gardening. We mainly grow gardenias, the school symbol, because it represents purity and innocence.
It also represents secret love, which I’m pretty sure no teachers know about and it’s sort of like a running joke between all the girls here.
Poe sticks her tongue out. “Ugh. I hate flowers.”
I give her a look. “Everyone likes flowers, Poe.”
“I like roses,” Wyn adds.
“I think gardenias are cool,” Salem pitches in. “What about you, Callie?”
Daisies.
I love daisies. I have dresses with daisies printed on them.
Or I had dresses with daisies printed on them.
I left them all in Bardstown the day I came here because I hate them now.
I hate daisies. I hate those dresses. I hate…
No, Callie. Now is not the time.
“I, uh —”
Poe saves me from answering — thank God — when she shakes her head and bursts out, “Can we get back to me, please? I was talking about something before Callie decided to go all crazy on us and declare her undying devotion.”
I sit up straight, thankful for the distraction. “Right. Okay. I was totally listening though.”
“Really? What was I saying then?”
“Uh…” I drum my fingers on the table. “You were saying that –”
“I’ll save you the trouble. She was saying what she’s always saying,” Wyn says.
Poe turns to her. “What am I always saying?”
“How much you hate your guardian,” she answers. “Because he sent you here. Because you wouldn’t stop setting his clothes on fire and poisoning his food.”
“I never poisoned his food.” Poe points a finger at Wyn. “Never.”
“So how did he end up in the hospital then?” Wyn asks.
“One time. That happened one time,” Poe clarifies. “And it wasn’t because I had poisoned his food. It was because I made him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Completely innocent. I did him a kindness. I was kind, people.”
“He’s allergic to peanuts, Poe.”
“Yes! And I found that out later. When his tongue was swelling up.” Poe throws her hands in the air, exasperated. “Why won’t anyone believe me?”
Wyn looks at me then and winks, a small smile playing at her lips.
Oh, she’s bad.
And I’m bad too so I wink back and chirp, “Because you’re diabolical. And you’re always talking about how much you wanna kill him and that you wouldn’t mind if they sent you to prison for it either.”
It’s true.
Poe has vowed to kill her guardian and I’m pretty sure with her evil, troublemaking mind, she can do it and never get caught.
Poe, however, glares at the both of us. “I wouldn’t. Just so you know. Even though I don’t think that orange is the new black and I don’t think I’m gonna look good in it, I’d still do it. I’d still stab his chest with my six-inch Prada heels – you know, the ones with suede that I really love – and I’d watch him bleed out and then when he’s all dead and buried, I’d dance on his grave. Mark my words.”
I purse my lips so I don’t laugh out loud at her murderous expression, crazy eyes and flushed cheeks.
Somehow I manage to say, all serious-like, “But you hate dancing, Poe.”
Poe is about to snap at me when Wyn interjects again. “Yeah, Poe, you hate dancing. You say your boobs hit your face when you jump around too much.”
I grin at Wyn and she grins back.
Again Poe is about to snap but again, she gets waylaid. This time by Salem.
“They’re excellent boobs though,” she says, raising her hand and jumping into the conversation while looking at Poe’s chest.
I look at Poe’s boobs and Salem is right. Her boobs are excellent.
Poe has a naturally curvy body, big boobs, slim waist and wide hips, sort of like those eighties pin-up girls, and yes, I’m definitely jealous of her.
“Yeah, they’re excellent,” I agree, nodding and looking at my own tiny ones.
“Right? I mean, I’d kill for boobs like that,” Salem says enviously.
Salem and I, we’re the same body type, small and athletic. Courtesy of her being a soccer player.
I have to say that even though I grew up around soccer, I’ve never really been friends with a female soccer player.
“As much as I like you guys talking about my boobs, because let’s face it, they are excellent,” Poe says, pointing to them, “I have bigger problems right now.”
Getting serious, Salem bites her lip. “Sorry.”
I get serious too. “Yeah, sorry. Tell us what’s wrong.”
Wyn puts down her sketchbook, meaning she’s paying attention, and all three of us lean toward Poe, eager to hear her story.
